


Bruised heart, bloodied knuckles

by azul_ora



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Agender Character, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fandom Trumps Hate, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Genderfluid Character, Light Angst, M/M, Other, Panic Attacks, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Trans Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 00:18:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10560186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azul_ora/pseuds/azul_ora
Summary: John Watson is a soldier, in any war. Sherlock Holmes might be the greatest fight of his life, or he might be John’s final battle.(Or, the one where John struggles to readjust to civilian life, Sherlock tries to help, Harry and Clara are compassionate, Mary is an impromptu relationship counsellor and Mycroft is just worried about zir brother.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [destinationtoast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinationtoast/gifts).



> **PLEASE READ**  
>  Warnings for mentioned non-explicit queerphobia, non-explicit violence, mentioned non-explicit minor original character death, mentioned misgendering and deadnaming, and explicit descriptions of trauma-related panic attacks. If any of this triggers or squicks you, please consider before reading.

It’s a bar fight that lands John Watson in a police station with broken skin on his knuckles, a smirk dancing around the corner of his mouth, and the words, “You should see the other guy,” to an exasperated police officer.

Because there is another guy – an extremely queerphobic ‘other guy’ who felt it necessary to come into a gay bar and start beef with (see:  _punch in the face_ ) the nearest people he could, that being John and Harry Watson. The two of them just wanted a drink and some good music.

But this guy wanted a fight, so now John is sitting with bloodied knuckles next to his sister who has a black eye and one broken high heel from kicking Mr Queerphobe in the balls. Said Mr Queerphobe is currently having his mugshot taken and being charged with hate crimes and two counts of assault and battery.

Just your average Tuesday evening.

In the end, it takes them three hours to get out of the station, and Harry gets an extremely worried phone call from Clara asking where the hell she is. John hails a cab and the two climb in, as Harry assures her panicked fiancée that they are, in fact, perfectly fine. John leans his head back against the window and stares out into the dark of London as the cab pulls away.

What a night.                                                                                              

They pull up at the apartment building at half two in the morning to see Clara standing in the bottom of the stairwell, waiting for them. Harry pays the cabbie and they get out. The cab drives away into the night and John follows his sister into the building and upstairs to their shared apartment. He goes into his own room, shivering slightly, leans his cane against the wall and collapses into bed, too tired to even take off his clothes. Pulling the sheets about himself, he stares at the wall and tries to ignore the fact that his body is flooded with adrenaline and his hands are resolutely steady.

* * *

 

Next morning, he pulls himself out of bed and picks up his cane. The curve of it settles into his hand and he limps through to the kitchen come living room. Snagging an unfilled roll from the cupboard, he takes a bite and leaves the apartment still dressed in his clothes from the day before, not bothering even to wipe the bloodstains from his sleeves. By the time he’s reached the ground floor, the roll is nothing but crumbs and he steps out into the cold morning, leaving his sister and her girlfriend sleeping above.

It’s a sharp, biting kind of cold, and the wind seems to snigger in superiority as he shivers in his thin jacket and heads towards the park. After five minutes' walk, he steps through wrought-iron gates and meanders towards the pond, where a few mallards are paddling, apparently unconcerned by the frosted grass around them. John eases himself onto a bench, sets his cane down beside him, and stares out across the still water, the park silent but for the occasional splash. He watches the ducks for a few minutes, then tips his head back and stares up into the early morning sky. It's mottled blue, streaked through with grey and the last remnants of sunrise's yellow. He closes his eyes and focuses his attention on his left hand. Curl, uncurl. Curl, uncurl. Curl, uncurl.

_It's okay._

* * *

 

He leaves the pond perhaps an hour later, having paced around it a few times and watched the ducks, a little enviously, for long enough. For lack of anything better to do, he pulls out his phone and calls Mary.

They answer with their usual, enthusiastic, "Hey, John!" and he smiles.

"Hey Mary. How are you? How's Lilah?"

He can practically hear the smile in their voice as they reply, "I'm great, and Lilah's good too. Stressing out about making sure everything's ready for the cats."

John lets out a huff of breath. "Yeah, I forgot! When're you getting them?"

"Tomorrow." The excitement in Mary's voice is obvious to hear. "We've pretty much got all our stuff together in the apartment - scratching posts and food bowls and the like - and we've a couple of carriers ready to go pick them up." They laugh. "To be honest, Lilah's done most of the heavy lifting - you know she's far stronger than me. She's there carrying a massive bag of cat litter in each hand without breaking a sweat and I'm here whining about moving the condo-thing you and I got together, and you know how light that was."

John replies mock-seriously, "Truly, you are fulfilling the requirements of a good datefriend."

Mary chuckles. "I sure hope so. Anyway, enough about Lilah and I. How are you?"

John swallows, and pauses for a second, before replying in an even tone, "I'm fine."

Mary hesitates, and then asks, "The nightmares?"

_A flash of gunfire. Screams, then the thuds of bodies falling. Blood, blood. He's never seen so much blood in his life. It's all over him, it's everywhere, and the skin under his hands is slippery with it, and the soldier to his left is watching anxiously. Stitch up the wounds, save her life. Tumbling out of a neat bun, black hair matted red with her own life, draining into the soil._

John clears his throat. "They're uh... getting better. A little."

Mary's voice goes incredibly soft, as they tentatively ask, "Are you still dreaming about Oliver?"

John's throat closes up, and he swallows a few times before replying, very quietly, "Sometimes." There's silence for a few seconds, and then he takes a deep breath. "Anyway," he starts, in a forcefully cheery voice, "I was calling to ask whether I could come over tomorrow night. I haven't been over in a while, and I'd love to see Lilah, and help with the cats - if you need it, I mean."

"Of course!" Mary replies. "I'd love to have you over - Lilah and I were planning to have a mini-celebration ourselves, for the cats, so you're more than welcome to join us. I can pick you up once I’m finished in the clinic, and drop you back at your place after?"

"Sure, sounds like a plan. Bye."

"Bye!"

John tucks his phone back into his pocket, and smiles. Dinner with Mary and Lilah. He could think of no better way to spend an evening.

He meanders around the park for perhaps half an hour, watching birds flit from tree to tree and squirrels scamper among the leaves, before a voice from a park bench behind him calls out, "John! John Watson!" He spins to see a large man hurrying towards him. Wait... is that-

"Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together."

"Yes, sorry, yes," John replies, a little flustered, now recognising him. "Mike. Hello, hi." He quickly shifts the cane to his other, horribly  _aware_  of the weight and feel of it in his hands, and shakes Mike's hand.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at."

_A flash of gunfire. A medical tent, running out onto the field. Oliver is crumpled behind a mound of earth, bleeding into the dirt. It's only ten metres, so close-_

_The bullet hits him in the shoulder and he doesn't even scream. All he can think is Oliver, don't you dare die on me._

"What happened?"

His voice holds remarkably steady as he replies, "Got shot."

Silence hangs in the air between them, heavy and oppressive. Unsaid things float in the morning chill.

Mike clears his throat. "Well, I was just about to go get coffee. Care to join me?"

"Sure."

John follows Mike out of the park, and tries to ignore his left hand. Curl, uncurl. Curl, uncurl. Curl, uncurl.

* * *

 

They sit with their coffee on a park bench and watch the world go by. John takes a sip and allows the sweetened coffee to wash over his tongue and calm his senses. "Are you still at Bart's then?"

"Teaching now. Bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them!" Mike chuckles and John forces a laugh that sticks in his throat. "What about you? Staying with your sister 'till you get yourself sorted?"

"Yeah. But Clara and Harry are marrying soon. I know they wouldn't kick me out, but..." He trails off, allowing the unfinished thought to hang in the space between them.

"But you don't want to stay, and you can't bear to be anywhere else but London. Couldn't you - I don't know, get a flatshare or something?"

"Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?"

"Funny. You're the second person to say that to me today." When John doesn't respond, Mike looks at him more intently. "You're not even gonna ask? That's not the John Watson I know."

"Yes, but the John Watson you know-" He cuts himself off, breath pulled harsh and scraping from his lungs. It all just feels  _wrong_. He's sitting, exchanging pleasantries with a man who's practically a stranger. The trees are too green, the coffee's too sweet. Gravel crunches underfoot and it sounds like gunfire. His breath catches in his throat and suddenly, he's back, running  _among smoking wreckage. Bodies lie everywhere and he doesn't check whether they're alive. Blood pours from the wound in his shoulder as he makes it the final ten metres to where Oliver is lying. He drops to his knees beside his boyfriend and pulls him up. "Come on - come on, Oliver. We have to go!"_ His chest is tight, the cold air catching in his throat. He can't  _breathe_. The world is blurring in front of him and he's vaguely aware that he's shaking all over - all except his left hand. His left hand is perfectly steady. He pushes it against the bench and curls his fingers tight around the metal, grounding himself in the cold rust.  _This too will pass. This too will pass. This too will pass._

After a minute, he can catch his breath, and the shaking dies down to trembling, and then to nothing. He leans back against the bench, exhausted despite the coffee, staring up at the sky and breathing deeply.  _It's over. You made it. It's over_.

He doesn't have to look to his right to know that Mike is looking at him with a mixture of concern and pity. It's the same expression, from everyone, every time. Poor little soldier, he's traumatised from the war. Give him time and space and he'll be fine. Never mind that Oliver is burnt into John's soul, that he couldn't escape the things he's done if he wanted to.

His left hand relaxes from the metal, and as the adrenaline kick slowly wears away, leaving John drained and empty despite the coffee, he notices a slight pain in his thumb. Lifting it up, he sees a small cut on the pad from the rust flakes that coat the bench's iron parts. The dark red against tan skin is all too familiar.

"So..." Mike begins awkwardly. "Do you want to come see Bart's?"

John agrees only because it's somewhere to go that isn't just one more place that's become  _I had a panic attack there, once._

_I was scared there, once._

_I lost control there, once._

_I watched my boyfriend die there, once._

He follows.

* * *

 

Mike steps into their old lab and he follows, and is instantly struck by how  _new_  everything seems. Gleaming technology, a far cry from the dusty equipment he and Mike had learned with. "Bit different from my day," he mutters, stepping to the right and glancing around.

"You've no idea," Mike laughs, and then John clocks a man dressed in what appears to be a dinner suit of some kind, staring into a microscope.

Without looking up, said man says, "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike asks.

Black-Suited Guy makes a sound that is halfway to an irritated groan. "I prefer to text."

John fishes in his back pocket and offers his own phone. Black-Suited Guy accepts, and then asks, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

And, well, it goes from there. Before John can get a handle on the conversation, Black-Suited Guy is showing him a picture of a small flat in London and saying they'll meet tonight at seven.

"Is that it?" John finally manages to get out, feeling that he really ought to stop Black-Suited Guy's spiel before it devolves into something unstoppable. "We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?"

"Problem?"

 _So many. You have no idea._  "We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name."

Black-Suited Guy proceeds to lay out John's fucking life story on a silver platter, like it's a fairytale. "The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Good day." And with that, Black-Suited Guy - Sherlock, what kind of a name is that? - disappears.

John glances over to Mike, who shrugs. "He's always like that."

John sighs.

* * *

 

He does end up going, though, if only because Mike insists and he knows he really  _can't_  stay with Harry and Clara forever. Sherlock is a veritable whirlwind of a person, and 221B looks suitably hurricane-ravaged - the place is such a mess John's surprised it hasn't ended up burning down or otherwise meeting some such fate yet - but with a lot of work, it could be nice. And, underneath the initial iciness, Sherlock actually seems half-decent.

Then he ends up getting called to investigate a crime scene and drags John along with him. The rest of the evening pretty much leads itself after that.

And then Sherlock just vanishes. Well, so much for actually seeming half-decent underneath it all. John limps out towards the main road, Donovan's words ringing in his ears.

_"But you're not his friend. He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"_

_"I'm... I'm nobody."_

_I'm nobody. I'm nothing. I'm here because I can't stay with my sister and her fiancée much longer, my best friend Mary lives with their girlfriend, and the last boyfriend I had died on the same battlefield that left me with a hole in my shoulder and a cane in my hand. I'm here because Mike Stamford knew Sherlock Holmes and I’m lost and desperate and need somewhere to go._

* * *

 

And then, there are phones ringing everywhere he walks and that  _can't_  be a coincidence, that's the simple truth, it can't. He steps into the payphone as it begins to ring and picks up the receiver. "Hello?"

"There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?" A soft voice, mid-pitched and tinged with the smooth accent of wealth and the assurance that comes with power.

"Who is this? Who's speaking?"

"Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?"

John huffs a sigh and turns his eyes to the building on the left. Sure enough, a security camera is mounted onto the side of the building, pointing straight at the phonebox he's in. "Yeah, I see it."

"Watch."

The camera turns away.

John swallows.

"There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?"

John lets out an affirmative murmur, and watches as that camera too turns to the left, leaving him unseen.

"And finally, at the top of the building on your right."

That camera, too, spins away. He swallows, already feeling adrenaline surging through him, and asks, “How are you doing this?”

“Get into the car, Dr. Watson.” John looks without the telephone box and sees a black car has pulls up to the curb. A chauffeur gets out and opens one of the doors. “I would make some sort of threat, but I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you.”

The line goes dead.

John settles his left hand against the cold glass of the telephone box and focuses on breathing. In for seven, out for seven. The last thing he needs to do is start hyperventilating.

After half a minute, he leaves the phone box and gets into the car, cane in hand.

* * *

 

After an awkward car ride with the silent chauffer and not-Anthea, the car pulls up in a large warehouse and stops. John glances over to not-Anthea, then sighs and gets out.

John limps towards the figure, cane clack-clack-clacking against the concrete, rough and uneven underfoot. As he draws nearer, the figure's face comes into view - youngish, with pale skin and brown hair cut close up the back and sides and a little longer on top.

“Have a seat, John.” The person swings the umbrella up and points at a small black chair a few metres in from of them.

“You know, I’ve got a phone.” John takes a death breath, trying to calm himself, letting his irritation bleed through every word. “I mean, very clever and all that, but er… you could just phone me. On my phone.”

The person smiles. “When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place.” They gesture around with their umbrella.

John disregards their statement and focuses on their face. “Who are you?”

“You can call me M.”

“M. Right.” John hesitates, hard-worn habits battling with basic instincts. Habits win out. “Pronouns?”

M pauses, clearly surprised by the question, and answers, “Ze/zir.”

John clears his throat, and M speaks in a voice somehow colder than before, “The leg must be hurting you. Sit down.”

“I don’t wanna sit down.”

M looks at him, head tilted just a little, a mix of curiosity and confusion on zir face. “You don’t seem very afraid.”

“You don’t seem very frightening.”

M laughs, all the confusion suddenly melting from zir face, eyebrows previously furrowed now relaxing, some invisible weight lifted. “Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?”

_“The bravery of the soldier is what’s important.” His drill sergeant is loud, abrasive, and an absolutely amazing person. She paces back and forth in front of the group, yelling loud to make herself heard. “The bravery of the soldier is absolute. As field medics, you are here not because you are brave but because you are smart.” She pauses. “Too bad. Learn to be brave! You have to be, if you want to survive out here.”_

John shakes himself back to the present and finds his left hand clenched tight around the top of his cane, the rest of himself shaking slightly, and M looking at him again with the expression of curiosity-confusion on zir face.

As John’s shaking slows, M opens zir mouth again. “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

“I could be wrong, but I _think_ that’s none of your business.” The unsaid things hang in the evening air between the two of them, the soldier and the businessperson. _We belong to very different worlds_ , John thinks. “Are we done?”

“You tell me.”

John turns and begins walking away, back towards the car.

“I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that’s not going to happen.”

John pauses for a second. Curl, uncurl. Curl, uncurl. His phone buzzes. He pulls it out of his jacket pocket with his too-steady left hand and starts to limp towards the car again.

_Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH._

He gets into the car and pulls the door shut.

“Address?”

“Er, Baker Street. 221B Baker Street. But I need to stop off somewhere first.”

The car pulls away, leaving M standing in the empty warehouse, umbrella in zir hand.

* * *

 

And then _of course_ (because John was not only wrong about Sherlock being nice, but hilariously so) all Sherlock wants him to do is sent a freaking text.

John takes the phone, drops on the desk on top of the paper that has a number scrawled across it, sits down in one of the armchairs and puts his face in his hands. Every muscle in his body aches with exhaustion, and he wants nothing more than to go upstairs and sleep through the night.

Unrealistic expectations.

He gets up and slowly moves into the kitchen to make himself a coffee. Behind him, Sherlock sits up from his position on the sofa. “John? This text is important.”

Instant coffee. It seems to be the only thing Sherlock has. “Send it yourself.”

Silence. Then, “I’ve angered you.”

“Not really.” _That would be quite a feat. To anger someone, you have to upset them, and to upset someone, they have to have something to lose._ His right hand shakes and some of the instant coffee spills onto the counter before it makes its way into his mug. He sets the tin down and looks around for a dishcloth. He finds a microscope and three cell cultures. He picks up the coffee and takes a sip. Too strong. He drinks again. The mug is hot against his fingers but his hands feel icy, skin burning with cold. His teeth clink against the mug and suddenly his fingers snap away from it, and isn’t that funny? They hurt, almost like they’ve been burned. They’re cold. No burns. The mug shatters. Hot not-coffee splashes on his shoes. A yelp from a mouth that’s maybe his. The edge of the table is sharp as he stumbles back. _The butt of a rifle against his back. “You’re dead, Watson. Be quicker next time.”_ He’s flying, flying, flying, falling. The floor is hard and cold. He pushes back, feet scrabbling, until his back is against the cabinet. He shakes and shakes and tries to breathe and, hey, where did the air go? Oxygen snaps back and forth like an elastic band, stinging and burning and cold sweet relief lasts only a second.

When he comes back to himself, a millennia later, Sherlock is crouched a couple of feet away, carefully giving John space, and looking at him with more concern in his eyes than John would’ve thought Sherlock capable of.

John tips his head back against the cabinet and breathes, savouring the taste of oxygen that isn’t snatched from the air.

“John?” Sherlock, and his voice is low and soft and gentle, and vaguely John thinks, _He knows about panic attacks_. “John? Would you like me to leave?”

He shakes his head, slightly. Panic attacks often leave him nonverbal.

“Would you like to sit in a chair?”

John nods slightly.

“Would you like me to help you over?”

John nods again.

And so Sherlock very gently helps John to his feet and moves slowly and silently into the living room, keeping contact to a minimum, painstakingly careful not to overload his senses.

Once John is settled into one of the armchairs, he curls into himself as Sherlock carefully and quietly moves into the kitchen and begins picking up the shattered mug.

John breathes, and breathes, and breathes.

_It's okay._

_It’s not okay._

* * *

 

Once John’s regained the powers of speech, he tells Sherlock in quiet, halting sentences about his meeting with the person who called zirself ‘M’.

“Do you know zem?” John asks.

“Yes.” Sherlock’s face is slightly troubled. “Ze’s my older sibling. Did ze ask you about me?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell zem anything?”

“No.”

Sherlock’s face relaxes slightly. “Good.” He hesitates. “Thank you.”

“If you don’t mind my asking,” John says quietly, “what gender is ze?”

“Fluid,” Sherlock replies, still careful to keep his voice equally low and soft. “It’s funny. Our parents are the most typical Conservatives you’ll ever meet, and Mycroft and I… ze turns out genderfluid and I… well, let’s just say my parents are still convinced they have a son called Michael and a daughter named Shirley.”

“Oh.” The two are silent for a time after that. “I’m sorry. That sounds crap.”

Sherlock smiles, a sad thing. “It is what it is. You?”

“Cis male. Both my parents are dead, and my sister is gay, so she doesn’t exactly have an issue with me being bi. I don’t really have any other family: it’s just me and her. Well, and her fiancée. Clara. I’ve been living with Harry – that’s my sister – for a while, but I needed to move out.”

“Oh. Did they ask you to?”

“Not verbally, but…” The rest of the sentence doesn’t need to be said. Comprehension is clear on Sherlock’s face.

The two of them sit in silence for a minute or two, and then Sherlock gently asks if John wants anything to eat or drink. John smiles, small and shaky but there all the same, and replies that he thinks anything in Sherlock’s kitchen is probably at least three-quarters of the way to radioactive and certainly not safe for human consumption. Sherlock laughs a little and John joins in, the sound of his dry, cracked voice carrying easily in the still air of the apartment.

It’s small, and quiet, and yet he can’t remember the last time he genuinely laughed.

* * *

 

Sherlock sends the text an hour later, and quickly explains how he came by the case. John points out that it would’ve been quicker if he’d asked John to help. Sherlock inclines his head and neither refutes nor accepts the point. John begins to wonder if Sherlock has a brainweird around letting people help him, but says nothing of it.

And then they’re at Northumberland Street and when Angelo goes to get a candle for the table, John finds he doesn’t much mind the implication that Sherlock and he are dating. He hasn’t had a partner since… well, since Oliver, but Sherlock is soft and warm and comforting for all that his outer demeanour would suggest otherwise. As Angelo returns with a small candle – cinnamon and orange scented – John considers that maybe he isn’t the only one wearing armour.

The food is surprisingly good – the fact that it’s free is probably biasing John’s opinions, but he can’t bring himself to care – and he and Sherlock maintain a half-conversation while they take it in turns to watch 20 Northumberland Street. John’s halfway through telling Sherlock about Mary and their girlfriend when Sherlock suddenly starts. “Look across the street. Taxi. Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out.”

John turns to look and, sure enough, a black cab is idling outside 20 Northumberland Street.

And then they’re sprinting out and John’s running like he hasn’t since Oliver and the night air is sharp and cold and bright in his lungs and it’s been _forever_ since he felt this free.

It turns out not to be the murderer, in the end, but it almost doesn’t matter, because _this_ is what he’s been missing, what he’s been chasing. Stone cobbles underfoot and blood pumping through his veins. If he were a little less mature, he’d go looking for a fight. Getting beat up was always a fast-track to the adrenaline high that reminds him he’s alive.

Of course, once they’re back at the flat, John finds out very sharply and suddenly that Sherlock’s accustomed to a very different kind of high.

To be honest, it doesn’t much change John’s opinion of him: the flat is clean, and Sherlock might read as a nicotine addict, but he doesn’t seem like a junkie (and John’s seen plenty). Donovan calls him dangerous and all John sees is a man willing to talk John down from the edge and still look him in the eye as an equal afterwards.

After they descend from the college and Sherlock makes it clear that he knows John was the one who shot that man sharp in the shoulder, Sherlock still looks him in the eye as an equal.

John invites him to dinner with Mary and Lilah the following night.

Sherlock accepts with a smile dancing around the corners of his mouth and bright in his eyes. John starts to think that maybe Sherlock is always smiling, if you only know how to look right.

* * *

 

When they get back to the flat, it’s past three in the morning and John’s crashing from the adrenaline high of a gun in his hands. He stumbles through to the bedroom in the back and crashes into the sheets without undressing.

He’s halfway asleep when Sherlock comes in to see John lying fully clothed on his bed, apparently dead to the world.

Sherlock hesitates for a moment, then moves to the foot of the bed and gently tugs John’s shoes off. He sets them down beside the bed and then gingerly pulls up the blankets to cover John. The door clicks shut and the room descends once again into soft darkness as Sherlock leaves. John lets out an involuntary sigh of pleasure and pulls the blankets a little tighter about himself.

He’s so screwed.

* * *

 

John wakes the next morning to sunlight filtering through the window: the curtains had been left open the night before and the early morning light illuminates the dust particles floating in the air of the room-

The room-

Sherlock’s room.

John pushes back the blankets and climbs out of bed. He stretches and hears a few of his vertebrae click, the noise loud in the quiet room. Pulling open the door, he moves out and along the corridor, towards the small kitchen. The sound of quiet clinking and footsteps reaches his ears and he steps into the room to find Sherlock standing attentively over two mugs of coffee. John clears his throat, and Sherlock spins.

“Ah. Good morning. I wasn’t sure if you would be up, but I made coffee.”

He proffers a mug which John gratefully accepts. He takes a sip, and smiles. Strong and bitter and exactly what he needs.

“Sorry about commandeering your bedroom, by the way.”

“It’s fine. Although I quite think Mrs Hudson is now convinced that we’re married.”

John laughs. “Well, how about that.” They remain in comfortable silence for a few moments, both leaning against the kitchen counter and sipping coffee before John remembers. “Ah, crap. I’ve gotta call Mary and ask them if it’s actually alright for you to come over.”

Sherlock’s eyes crinkle in amusement. “This would be the Mary that you’ve invited me to dinner with?”

John nods and tugs his phone out of his pocket, quickly calling them. Mary picks up within two rings and greets him with a cheery, “Hey, John!”

“Hey, Mary. What’s up?”

“I’m at work. You?”

“Not much. I was calling to ask whether it’d be okay if I bring a friend over tonight?”

Mary’s voice bubbles with curiosity. “A friend, mm?”

“Yes.”

“Only if you tell me their name.”

“Sherlock.”

“Okay, now you’ve got me interested. I’ll pick you up from your place?”

“Ah, no. His place. 221B Baker Street.”

John can practically _feel_ Mary’s raised eyebrows through the phone. “His place? My, my. The plot thickens.”

“Mary.” The name is halfway between a warning and a plea.

“Alright, alright.” A laugh. “221B Baker Street. I’ll come grab you once I’m done with work. It’ll probably be about five.”

“Gotcha.”

“Catch you later, hot stuff.”

“Later.” John quickly hangs up before Mary can embarrass him further: he can already feel his face heating up, and he’s incredibly grateful that Sherlock could only hear his half of the conversation.

Sherlock just smiles and finishes his coffee.

* * *

 

John showers quickly, then realises he doesn’t have any clothes save the smelly two-day old clothes he was wearing before. Wrapping a towel around his hips, he steps out of the bathroom and moves towards the living room. “Sherlock?” he calls, one hand on the towel to keep it from slipping. “Do you have any clothes I can borrow? Mine are all back at my place.”

Sherlock glances up from his spot on the couch and clocks John standing half-naked and dripping wet with damp hair plastered over his forehead. “Uh… yeah. In the closet, in my room. Take whatever. I barely wear any of it anyway.”

John thanks him and walks back down the corridor, trying to convince himself he imagined the way Sherlock’s breath hitched as he caught sight of John. He’s no pretty thing shirtless, he knows that: his shoulder is a puckered mess of scar tissue and the rest of his chest is nothing to write home about. He closes the door and finishes drying himself off, then opens the closet, looking for something nice to wear that looks like it might fit him. His eyes alight on a purple shirt and a black pair of trousers that look a little shorter than all the others. He hesitates only a second before flipping his own underwear inside-out and putting them back on, then pulls on the trousers and shirt and examining himself in the mirror. The shirt sleeves are a little long, so he cuffs them twice till they come midway down his forearms and look nicely informal rather than just too big.

He towels his hair until it’s only slightly damp, then pulls it to one side in an almost-style before leaving the room. Hanging the towels up by the bath, he goes back through to the living room. This time, the catch in Sherlock’s breath at the sight of John in his clothes is audible, but John steadfastly ignores it in favour of finding his laptop. It’s sitting on the desk piled high with paper, and his gun lies atop it. Pushing the firearm aside, he grabs the laptop and sits down in one of the armchairs. It sinks under his weight as he leans back and opens the laptop, clicks to his blog and begins to type.

* * *

 

Mary arrives at ten past five and Sherlock follows John downstairs and into their car. It’s a twenty-minute drive to Mary’s block, populated by polite conversation between the three. When they get there, Sherlock hands John his cane as he gets out of the car. Up one flight of stairs and into Mary’s apartment and then Lilah’s tackling John into one of her bear hugs and John can’t recall the last time he felt this _loved_.

John quickly introduces Sherlock to Lilah and then Mary and Lilah show John and Sherlock the new cats: two oriental shorthairs with silver-grey fur and bright green eyes.

“The one with the blue collar is Kariel,” Mary says, “and the one with the purple collar is called Collins.”

“Unusual names much?” John teases, and Mary laughs and asks John to come through to the kitchen and help them carry the food out. Once in there, they check that Sherlock and Lilah are still occupied with the cats (the latter is showing the former how to stroke Kariel properly) and then turns to John.

“If this was a test of my approval, he passes,” they start, with absolutely no preamble.

John rubs a hand over his face, feeling some of the tension go out of his shoulders. “I’m scared, Mary. I mean… he seems perfect, but perfect people don’t exist, do they? Not really?”

Mary shrugs. “Perfect is what you make of it. If you think he’s good enough to work for, then he’s perfect. So if you think you can work past the inevitable differences, I’d say go for it.”

“It’s all going so fast though,” John persists. “I’ve barely known him two days.”

Mary laughs. “I first met Lilah at ten in the morning and we went on our first date at six in the evening on the same day, and we’ve been together… how long now? Five years? Sometimes, you don’t need all the time everyone talks about. Besides, say you do break up – which, just looking at the two of you, seems unlikely. So what? People date, sometimes people break up. It happens. You shouldn’t be afraid to love a little just because you think the whole world’s out to break your heart.”

John sighs, and then smiles, feeling a weight lift from his back. “Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “Okay, I’ll give him a shot.” He gives Mary a sly look. “And if it all ends in tears, you are responsible for buying me breakup chocolate and cheese and listen to me philosophise about the meaninglessness of life.”

“Deal.”

And they carry the food out to the table. Mary and Lilah sit on one side of the table, and John and Sherlock take the other. At some point during the meal, John’s hand finds Sherlock’s under the table. John smiles and neither make any move to let go.

After the main course is finished, John, Sherlock and Lilah move to the small but cozy living area, while Mary gets dessert. John sits next to Sherlock and tentatively leans his head on his shoulder: when Sherlock does not shift away, he settles into him a little more, and allows his eyes to half-close. Mary emerges with ice cream and gives John a wink as she hands him and Sherlock a bowl each, before curling up in an armchair with Lilah and putting on an episode of Star Trek.

When the episode’s finished, John’s halfway to asleep. His eyes flicker open as Sherlock says quietly, “John, we’ve got to go now.” He lets out an incoherent murmur of agreement and slowly stands, rubbing his eyes. Sherlock puts an arm around his shoulders and helps lead him out the apartment, down the stairs and into the back of Mary’s car. Mary themself smiles as they get into the front and starts the car. John leans into Sherlock.

Sherlock speaks into his hair. “Mycroft gives zir blessings, by the way. Ze asked that if there’s a wedding, that ze be invited.”

John turns his head up and their lips brush, and it’s soft and casual and perfect.

John tucks his head back into the crook of Sherlock’s neck. The car drives on into the sunset.

_It’s okay._

_It’s not okay._

_No, it’s not okay. But it’s going to be._

**Author's Note:**

> Don’t own ‘em – if I did, it’d be a lot more diverse. Some dialogue has been lifted directly from A Study In Pink and I do not own this dialogue.  
> This was written for the 2017 Fandom Tr*mps Hate auction, for [destinationtoast](https://destinationtoast.tumblr.com).  
> For anyone who doesn't know, the word John uses to describe Mary, 'datefriend', is a gender-neutral equivalent of girlfriend/boyfriend.


End file.
